Deadly Zeal

by Jean Chapman

  ‘Her trouble is?’ Cannon asked.

  ‘She has a type of cerebral palsy,’ he replied. ‘But she could be a help to me in what is fast becoming a sideline to my television work; between us we might develop new aids to help so many disabilities that fall within that general heading. However, my father always thinks he knows best but …’ Now Toby raised clenched victorious fists. ‘But he has finally agreed I should take my mother and sister back with me. He will, of course, travel out with them and I intend that he as well as them will have a proper holiday in Norway, as extended as I can make it, and I’ll make sure he sees what it could offer Catherine.’

  Toby Higham left soon after and Paul returned from seeing him out with a quizzical look on his face. ‘What do you make of all that?’ he asked.

  ‘My old mum would have said father and son are too much alike ever to get on. My old man would have said they wanted their heads knocking together, hard.’

  ‘And both would have been right,’ Paul said. Scooping up his own son, who was falling asleep on the floor with his head on a blue teddy bear, he added, ‘I hope I do better.’

  Cannon grinned, ‘I think you’ll do all right, and I’ll come and knock your heads together if and when necessary.’

  ‘Good,’ Paul said. ‘I’ll put him in his cot, then another coffee, or something stronger?’

  ‘No, I should go. I might call to see the prof and tell him of our decision about the quiz.’

  Paul gave him a nod of agreement. ‘Has to be right, I’m afraid.’

  Bliss Antiques was being supervised by its owner, who looked over his glasses as the old-fashioned doorbell he had set up bounced on its spring. He was working over a packing case at the far end of the shop, and came forward carrying a walking stick in each hand.

  ‘Good morning, John,’ the prof greeted him, ‘I hope you’re not bringing more bad news.’

  Cannon shook his head.

  ‘And the easel was suitable for Liz, I hope? If not …’

  ‘Ah no.’ Cannon dismissed any idea of dissatisfaction. ‘It was perfect, she loves it. No, it’s the quiz.’

  ‘We’re dropping out,’ Michael Bliss guessed, adding, ‘Well, I suppose in the circumstances it was inevitable.’ He carefully put the two walking sticks down on a glass-topped counter.

  Cannon saw that one had a carved bone figure of an old-time barrow boy as a handle. The figure of the boy formed the top part of the cane and his barrow the handle.

  ‘Oh, what an attractive thing,’ he said, extending a hand towards it, asking permission to pick it up. He found the piles of vegetables and fruit on the barrow were carved into smooth shapes that fitted so very comfortably into the palm of his hand. ‘My father was a Cockney fruit and veg man,’ he said, ‘lots of lovely ackers, he used to say.’

  ‘A man after my own heart then.’ The prof grinned.

  ‘I could almost believe it looked like the old man when he was younger. How much do you want for this one?’

  ‘I’ve only just bought a collection at a house sale. The man had been a serious buyer, he had some nice pieces.’ He led Cannon over to the packing case inside which was a collection that made Cannon exclaim in delight. There were sticks with the heads of dogs, ducks, horses, parrots, old ladies, a pool ball, carved horns and antlers.

  ‘I’m not sure about pricing yet,’ the prof went on, ‘and to be honest I just picked these two out because the carving on both is of such high quality.’

  Cannon looked at the second one. The handle of this was made up of the carved spread wings of an eagle, talons stretched to grip the cane and amber eyes staring down. ‘It’s a sea-eagle,’ Michael Bliss said. ‘I saw them once on a trip to northern Norway, always said I’d go back.’

  ‘So these two are going to be expensive,’ Cannon said. The eagle was if anything a finer bone-carving than the costermonger, but it was this one Cannon was reluctant to leave. ‘I really like this,’ he told the prof. ‘Would you let me have first refusal when you have priced it?’

  The prof promised.

  ‘Did you know that the Highams are all set to go to Norway?’ Cannon said as he was leaving.

  ‘Really!’ the prof stood with the two sticks in his hand again. ‘When’s this to be?’

  ‘Soon, I think, I’ve just met their son Toby.’

  ‘Toby.’

  He seemed to snatch the name from Cannon’s lips.

  ‘You know him?’ Cannon asked.

  Michael Bliss turned away, taking the two walking sticks and placing them back in the packing case, but picking up another to show Cannon. ‘Toby,’ he said, displaying the terrier on the top of this stick, ‘Punch and Judy’s dog.’

  ‘Right,’ Cannon said, knowing a diversionary tactic when he saw it.

  ‘So,’ he demanded of Liz when he reached home, ‘if Michael Bliss knew Toby Higham, why didn’t he just say so?’

  Liz shrugged. ‘Well, I’d never heard of Toby Higham, we’ve lived here longer than the prof, and you say this Toby lives in Oslo anyway. I don’t see the problem.’

  ‘It was the way he behaved, the way he said “Toby”, his reaction to the name, then he fishes out this walking stick, it was ludicrous.’

  ‘John!’ Liz’s exclamation was quiet but meaningful. ‘This man’s an academic, no telling what avenue his mind was going down. You’re not in the psychiatrist’s chair. If you have serious concerns you should tell Helen or Betterson, but I think with this latest murder they are looking for more positive leads.’

  He said no more but when Liz was busy serving all-day breakfasts for two regular customers, lorry drivers back from delivering loads of vegetables to the southern markets, he went out on to the front step with his phone. He sat on one of his bench seats, admiring the display of mauve and pink miniature Michaelmas daisies and pink dahlias in the big round barrel tubs, and quickly brought up the site for the university Toby Higham had attended. He made a note of what he thought might be the best sources of information, then rang the porters’ lodge where, in his experience, parcels, letters and all the gossip of a university often resided. He got through very quickly and was pleased to hear the voice of an older man announce, ‘Jenkins, head porter.’

  ‘I wonder if you can help me,’ he said. ‘My name is John Cannon and I am trying to trace a professor friend of mine. I believe he taught at your establishment some ten years ago.’

  ‘Well, I’ve been here for thirty so it is possible. I’ve a good memory.’

  ‘The professor’s name was Michael Bliss,’ Cannon said.

  There was a chuckle at the end of the line, but to his surprise the porter said, ‘No, no one of that name, I’m sure of that sir, no, not Bliss.’

  Jenkins asked him if there was anything else he could help him with, wished him good afternoon and rang off.

  Cannon was left wondering what the man had found amusing, realized that it could be nothing at all to do with his phone call but then, as if wanting to find some fault with the man, consulted his watch. It was just after midday.

  ‘Pedant,’ he judged.

  Chapter 11

  The sense of discontent, unease of having not quite understood the significance of things, stayed with Cannon like a knot in his mind he could not untie.

  He stood out on his front step at opening time that night watching the sky, wondering that everything could still be so peaceful, look so beautiful. He watched the clouds become undershot with pink and gold from the lowering sun, and wondered if Dick Ford had liked the autumn? A gamekeeper’s busy time before the quiet of the winter. He could have wished he had known the man better, and as the sun dipped to the horizon and its passing glory increased, he asked a silent question. ‘I wonder what you saw that made it necessary for such a swift execution?’

  The sun lowered and as the colours faded Cannon’s more immediate concern returned. How had Alan Hoskins fared during his first official day as overseer of the Higham woods?

  Then he gave a low humph of satisfaction w
hen, as if on cue, he saw the very man on his bike hove into view. He stepped down from his front step to meet him but before Hoskins could come anywhere near the pub a white van came from the road behind him. It swept in front of the bike, much too close in Cannon’s opinion. The driver got out and raised an arm but whether in greeting or attack Cannon did not wait to see. He shouted and ran. The open door obscured his view until he reached the vehicle and slammed it shut.

  ‘Aah!’ he said as he recognized the young man talking animatedly to Hoskins as Callum, an apprentice at a local boatyard. He had first met Callum when Hoskins had taken him to the yard. A case when local cruisers were being bought and used for criminal purposes. [Ref: Deadly Serious]

  ‘Hello, young man, you swung in a bit sharp and stopped quickly, I just wondered if everything was OK?’

  ‘Hello, Mr Cannon, I’ve just come to tell Mr Hoskins about his … rabbits,’ Callum said. ‘I wasn’t sure what to do.’

  ‘Rabbits?’ Cannon questioned.

  Callum nodded.

  ‘You can tell us both what’s happened,’ Hoskins authorized, adding, ‘Young Callum here takes a few rabbits once a fortnight to a butcher in Sutdyke for me.’

  Callum took up the story. ‘I popped over in my lunch break, and that detective was there, the tall chap I’ve seen quite a few times making enquiries about things.’

  ‘Detective Inspector Betterson,’ Cannon suggested and Callum nodded.

  ‘Yes, that’s him. He was asking the butcher about a woman who had been to the shop. The butcher took no notice of me so I didn’t know whether he was supposed to buy things from just anyone.’

  ‘The detective was asking what this woman bought, but then DI Betterson realized I was there, and said to serve me first.’

  ‘So?’ Hoskins asked.

  ‘I bought some steak,’ Callum said. ‘The rabbits are still in the van.’

  ‘He lives on the premises,’ Hoskins began. ‘It wouldn’t take us long to drive back there now.’ He looked at his young friend and with a nod urged him to do just that.

  ‘OK,’ Callum said, the faintest hint of reluctance in his voice.

  Cannon guessed he had more attractive plans for the evening, and reached out to take Hoskins’ bike from him. ‘Drop our mutual friend back at the pub afterwards,’ he told the young man. ‘I’ll park his bike for him.’

  ‘Thanks, that’ll save a bit of time,’ he said as Hoskins relinquished his bike.

  ‘Go on, let’s see you ride it,’ Hoskins challenged.

  ‘Clear off and sell Higham’s rabbits and whatever else you’ve poached,’ he told him, refusing to admit he had never learned to ride a bike. His dad had told him where they lived in the East End that it was better to be a ‘foot soldier’ and so he had been until a Mini, the first motorized love of his life, with a Union Jack painted on its roof, had come into his life. He waited until the van was out of sight, then put one foot on a pedal and scooted back to The Trap.

  Hoskins walked into the pub three-quarters of an hour later. Once ensconced in his corner pew-seat at the end of the counter, the bar was quiet enough for Cannon to give him his full attention.

  ‘So what did you find out from your butcher friend?’ Cannon asked.

  ‘Quite a lot,’ Hoskins said. ‘The police have been watching Spier’s wife and his mother ever since Maurice went missing. Suddenly the mother starts using two butchers. She goes to her usual one for her bits of stewing meat, a chop or a chicken breast, but then goes on to my chap and buys sausages, best steak, pork chops, liver, the works.’

  ‘So she’s …’

  ‘Either feeding an army, or her son Maurice,’ Hoskins confirmed.

  ‘So it shouldn’t be hard for the police to find out where he is,’ Cannon said, frowning. ‘Should think by now …’

  ‘They should have ’im,’ Hoskins added. ‘We’ll hear sooner or later.’

  It was sooner, as everyone in the bar was alerted by the sound of a loud bang and breaking of glass.

  ‘Somebody hit something.’

  No one denied the comment.

  One or two, including Cannon, made moves to go out and see, but before anyone reached the doors they were flung open. Cannon blinked as if to be sure of what he saw, as a slightly stooped but hard-looking, grey-haired woman burst into his bar. She immediately focused on Hoskins and made directly for him. Hoskins got to his feet defensively, as the woman he and Cannon had last seen in her garden denying all knowledge of the dog tied up to her line-post brushed aside men twice her size to reach him.

  ‘What’ve you done with my son?’ she demanded then, stabbing a bent forefinger, included Cannon: ‘And you. Tying up a dog in my garden so you could come snooping around.’

  ‘What you talking about, woman?’ Hoskins asked.

  ‘I’m talking about my son, Maurice, what’ve you done with him?’

  ‘What have I done with him? I think it’s what you’ve been doing with him!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘What’ye mean?’

  ‘Where’ve you been hiding him, and feeding him best steak and sausages and stuff?’

  ‘How d’you know?’ Mrs Spier was disconcerted for a second, then launched herself at Hoskins, arms flailing. ‘You tell me where he is! What you done with him?’ she screamed. ‘You came on to my property snooping around, you’d no business –’ She stopped as the sound of a police siren wailed swiftly in from the distance and stopped outside.

  Cannon glanced around; everyone in the bar was as rapt as if they were watching a good crime drama on TV. With excellent timing, the doors swung open and Betterson, and Maddern in sergeant’s uniform and greatcoat, came in, both big, experienced men. Their authority was almost like an extra presence. As one they came towards the old lady.

  ‘That was a silly thing to do, Mrs Spier,’ Betterson said, ‘driving off like that. You’re only adding to your troubles.’ He looked her up and down. ‘You’re not hurt, are you? We’ll get a doctor to check you over at the police station.’ Then he turned to Cannon. ‘She’s demolished one of your big flower tubs.’

  ‘I’m not going to no police station!’ Mrs Spier shouted.

  ‘I am afraid you are,’ Betterson told her, ‘and at the rate you’re going we’ll need an extra long charge sheet.’

  Mrs Spier suddenly launched herself at Betterson. ‘You find my son!’

  ‘If you hadn’t hidden him in the first place he might be safe in a nice comfortable cell,’ Betterson told her, as he tried to catch her flailing arms. ‘Look, lady, you’ll only finish up hurting yourself. You’ve hidden a wanted man, resisted arrest, crashed your car, cost us time and expense –’ Then as she caught him a good sound slap across his face, he threatened the use of handcuffs and Maddern came to his aid.

  ‘Come on, Lily,’ Maddern said, ‘we don’t want to take you to the station in handcuffs,’ but she still violently shook off his hand when he tried to take her arm. He merely took hold a little firmer and said loudly, ‘Lily Spier, you’re making an exhibition of yourself, and none of us will find your Maurice while we’re wasting time here.’

  Lily Spier looked up at Maddern. ‘He’s all I’ve got,’ she said.

  ‘Let’s get on then,’ Maddern said briskly, nodding down at her, and she allowed herself to be led outside.

  Cannon followed, thinking Maddern was probably worth several recruits with top degrees and a good many others thrown in.

  His flower tub had split with the impact, soil and dahlias were strewn over the ground and the bonnet of Mrs Spier’s car concertinaed.

  ‘It doesn’t look as if she even attempted to brake,’ Liz said. ‘It’s a wonder she managed to get out of the car.’

  ‘Thank God for airbags,’ Cannon muttered, kicking some of the soil and plants to one side. ‘I’ll get a brush or this lot will all walk in.’

  ‘What do you think they’ll charge her with?’ Liz asked.

  ‘They’ll be spoilt for choice,’ Cannon replied.

  They waite
d for news of Maurice Spier being apprehended – but nothing. The daily gossip in the bar hardened on the opinion that Maurice was dead because he was not smart enough to evade the kind of police raids and searches that were said to have peppered the whole area. The newspapers ranted on about lack of progress in the case of the two separate murders, and for want of better material repeated the gory details of each death with much speculation, over which Cannon tutted and swore.

  To his relief Hoskins said he was keeping strictly to the woods around The Grange, making sure ‘the boss sees I’m on the job’. He told Cannon that the family were preparing to leave for Oslo, though the police had been paying plenty of visits to The Grange.

  ‘They’ll probably be liaising with the Norwegian police,’ Cannon said.

  ‘So you think Higham will take trouble with him?’ Hoskins asked.

  ‘He’s targeted everywhere, or he thinks he is, according to his son who lives in Oslo.’

  ‘He said he’d met you. I explained you were ex-Met,’ Hoskins said. ‘Spit of his old man, who by the way wants to see you before he leaves. He said could you make it tomorrow afternoon about three.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Cannon said, keeping any eagerness from his voice; at last a chance to ask questions, to do something. He had fretted that he had seen neither Paul nor Betterson since the day Mrs Spier had been taken away from his bar, and no one seemed to know for certain whether she had been charged, released on bail, or kept in custody. Paul was difficult to approach because he did not want to make matters any more complicated for Helen but this summons to The Grange gave him the impetus to make another call en route.